


Collected Sherlock tumblr ficlets/drabbles AGAIN

by PoppyAlexander



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Disguise, Fake French Accents, Headcanon, Infidelity, John Watson's Danger Kink, M/M, One-Sided Relationship, Phone Calls & Telephones, Prompt Fic, Red Pants, Red Pants Monday, Scars, Suicidal John Watson, Tumblr Ask Box Fic, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-22
Updated: 2015-08-21
Packaged: 2018-04-16 13:36:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 2,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4627242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoppyAlexander/pseuds/PoppyAlexander
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Collected ficlets I've written for tumblr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prank

_**fleurdelis221b**  prompted:  
_

_John makes a prank call and gets Sherlock. Flirty hilarity ensues._

*

 

“ _Oui_ , is zat zee famous Shairlock Olmes?”

“Yes. Your accent is ludicrous.”

“It is zee disguise! It is well-known how you love a disguise. Please post to zis blog of yours before you will wear zis sparkling mini-dress hanging in your wardrobe. Dates, times, locations–zee more details zee bettair!”

“It’s not sparkles; it’s sequins. So you’ve been in my wardrobe.”

“Not to the extent I would like to be! Nevermind zis, Monsieur Olmes. I called only to say zat zee new after shave is not working for you and please to go back to the old one.”

“Are you speaking in code? Where are you?”

“Zis is adorable, how you look around zee flat for a person calling on zee phone. ‘What what? Where can he be? Is he in zee butter dish?’ And next you will look out zee window.”

“I’m not looking out the window!”

“Aha! Tell me, Monsieur, inquiring minds want to know: is it bigger zan a baby’s arm?”

“What on earth–”

“No, no! Don’t spoil it! I have  _such dreams_!…only LISTEN, Monsieur. Listen closely… _so closely_ …listen…”

“Speak up, for god’s sake, why are you whispering?”

“I have information you will want, Shairlock. May I call you Shairlock?”

“You may call me  _Sherlock_ …”

“ _Shairlock_. I have information about zis flatmate, zis doctor. Zis  _army_  doctor.”

“What do you know about John Watson?”

“Three things zis doctor cannot resist: zee sparkly minidress–”

“Sequined.”

“–sequined minidress, 18-year-old Macallan and water–”

“Why the eighteen?”

“Is zis really zee part you want to focus on right now Sherlock for jesus’ sake–I mean  _Shairlock_  for jesus’ sake.”

“What’s the third irresistible thing?”

“Zee old after shave. It is imperative you put together zeez three things in–let’s say–forty-five minutes?”

“I’ll be ready in thirty.”

_“Au revoir, ma loutre!”_

_*_

 

(google “French endearments” and you will be delighted to see on the list:  _ma loutre_ , “my otter.”)


	2. A Good Trick

_**phipiohsum475**  prompted:_

_Sherstrade and "Don’t fucking touch me.”_

_*_

 

He’s just so  _needy_ , a scribbled mess, flayed wide open for anyone to see what a great bloody wreck he is beneath the suit, the coat, the keenly narrowed eyes, the tough talk around the cigarette clamped between his teeth.

Anyone  _could_  see, but only Sherlock ever sees him this way, and he doesn’t even see it. God knows what he sees, with those changeable, untrustworthy eyes, but it’s not this. Sherlock doesn’t look at Greg and see a racing, torn-up heart. He doesn’t see the inside of Greg’s lips bitten raw with the unremitting stress of the thing. And he probably sees but pretends not to see that Greg is pinned and mounted, a helpless husk.

Greg will never stand up, clamp down, turn Sherlock away. He will not maintain his principles, his bottom line, his fucking  _marriage vows_. Sherlock will saunter or stride or swirl into Greg’s orbit, and his gravity is irresistible, even if Greg were (really) inclined to resist. Sherlock’s challenging eyes. Sherlock’s wet, open mouth. Sherlock’s elbows and shoulder blades and hip- and ankle-bones. Sherlock’s voice, his tone, his breath at Greg’s temple and the way he always says, “ _Please.”_

A good trick. One Greg is over-eager to fall for.

“All too happy to let me please you,” Sherlock had scolded once, a long time ago, at the beginning, on the verge of ending it. “But I can’t help but notice you don’t fucking touch me.”

“I kiss you; I want–”

“Stop wanting and just fucking  _do_. These arbitrary lines you draw don’t cancel the fact you’re an adulterer, that train left the station the very first time you let me open your trousers. So–please–if you’re going to treat me like a whore, at least pay me for my trouble.”

And so Greg had  _done_  all that he’d wanted, then let himself want more, and ask more, and demand and crave and swallow and  _wallow_  more, and  _still_  it wasn’t enough. Still he was bottomless, aching, endless bloody need, and Sherlock didn’t even see it.


	3. Leaked! The Big Johnlock Reveal

**John:**  Just came down to fetch that laundry. Thanks, as always.

  
**Mrs Hudson:**  No trouble, dear. Though your Sherlock's going to be seeing red, I'm afraid.

  
**John:**  Well he's not "my" Sherlock. But. . .why is that?

  
**Mrs Hudson:**  All his white shirts are a bit. . .pink.

  
**John:**  Oh, god.

  
**Mrs Hudson:**  Doing his laundry all this time, I notice things. Like that he must not wear pants, because there's never any in his basket.

  
**John:**  Thank you again, Mrs Hudson!

  
**Mrs Hudson:**  Which is. . .well, it's his choice but--you're a doctor, dear, is that hygienic? No pants? They call it "going commando" now, which I think is quite cute.

  
**John:**  I'll break it to him about the shirts.

  
**Mrs Hudson:**  So the red pants that got in with Sherlock's shirts--in Sherlock's basket--in Sherlock's bedroom--must not be his. Look at me! Making deductions!

  
**John:**  All right, then, good night, Mrs Hudson!

  
**Mrs Hudson:**  Rent stays the same even if you share a room, dear. I have bills. But I suppose closing up the spare room could save me on heat. . .

  
**John:**  GOOD NIGHT MRS HUDSON AND THANK YOU.


	4. Deathwish

_**willietheplaidjacket**  prompted:_

_Johnlock - “Ever wonder if the world would be better off without you… ?” :)_

*

 

“Trust Issues,” his therapist wrote.

“You’re addicted to endings,” his longest-term girlfriend said.

“Careless. Routinely takes unnecessary risks. Unfit for return to duty,” the army reported.

John Watson at age 40 figured he must have been born suicidal, for he could remember feeling no other way. He ran at top-speed, head-first with eyes shut toward any hint of impending disaster. He craved a grievous accident. The most comfortable place he’d ever been was at the corner of Wrong Place and Wrong Time.

_End this. End it now. God, yes…Please yes… just like this. Oh end this now, **now** , fucking  **now** , please, please, fuck yes that’s it that’s it  **jesus end this…FUCK**_

Somehow he was still walking wounded. The great failure of his life, John Watson thought, was that he had one at all.

Trust issues. A laugh. His father beat his mother. His mother showed up drunk at his school in the middle of the day, crying, and he had to drag her home propped on his shoulder. She cursed him for being his father’s son. She caressed his face and called him her beautiful baby, you’re not like him, don’t be like him, my boy, my good boy. She curled around him and passed out and John must have fallen asleep because it felt nice, even though he was too old to be cuddled and her breath stank of the drink. His father beat them both. John did his leaving exams early and never spoke to them again.

_Hurt them before they hurt you_ , isn’t that how it went? For John Watson, there came a moment with every lover he’d ever had when he did a bad thing, or two, or several, left evidence in the open, got caught, got screamed at or had things thrown at him and was told it was  _over_ , that he must  _get out and not come back_ . Just in time, too, because he was his father’s son, but he was damned if he would raise a hand in anger against someone who loved him, even when he itched to. And so. Hurt them before you  _hurt_  them.

Routinely takes unnecessary risks. Yes, because that is how it’s done, when you’re John Watson, disappointed to wake up every morning, tired of everything, fucking  _exhausted_ …But also a fucking coward who cannot bear the idea of some stranger who shouldn’t have to see such a thing walking into a dormitory or a barracks or a tent or a miserable bedsit and smelling the stink of his body, mopping his blood and brains off the floor. Even the sea couldn’t be trusted not to bring him back to shore. What else was there but to rush to danger, not just flirt with it but get positively whorish with it, invite it in and ply it with empty promises. Danger was a dirty bloody  _tease_ , but courting it was all he could think to do.

And now there is this man. This chaotic, scribble-down mess of a genius of an overgrown child of a man, and he is beautiful, and he is magnetic, and he is Danger in a good suit. Six lean feet of dark alleys and foot chases and those places where the cameras don’t see. John Watson’s trust issues and endings-addiction and unnecessary risk-taking found a home in the palm of this man’s hand, and in the heat of his mouth, and in his wonderful, terrible, big brain. If anyone was custom-designed for a spectacular, probably ridiculous and mostly-avoidable death at too young an age, it is Sherlock Holmes. If John Watson had claws, Sherlock Holmes would be pierced, and held, and ridden straight through to the end; he is perfect.

He is brave in a way that looks like foolishness. His vulnerability is manifested as cruelty. His ego is as big as a planet and as fragile as a soap bubble. He is so entirely unexpected. To surrender to him–to put a life in his (ink-stained, chemically-toxic, violin-playing) hands; to sit with the terror of wanting to hurt him without purposely hurting him; to take the unnecessary risk of saying  _I am yours whether you like it or not so take me, have me, push and pull me straight into it, it’s what I want, and I want it with you, only with you…_ –all of that is an entirely new angle on John Watson’s death wish.

Another night buzzing with adrenaline and gut-laughing and that magic moment when  _this could be it, this could be how it ends, oh god yes end this, with you, with you, only with you, this is how it ends._ Another night that ends in a sweat-soaked, heaving tangle, and they lie side by side with just their wrists touching, and they never talk about it after, but the muzzy softness washes away their high and the room is so quiet and it’s so late and so dark and his breath is just audible, he’s nearly asleep, and there is not a spot on him John Watson would not happily slide his tongue across.

“Ever wonder if the world would be better off without you…?”

John Watson does not even know how to begin to answer.


	5. Always, This

_**neverrwhere**  prompted:_

_All these prompts are fantastic for Johnlock, but here, have: 'What happened doesn't change anything' because I know you like angst ;-)_

_*_

 

“You hand me disaster after disaster and I just keep accepting them.” John shakes his head, arms crossed tight across his chest, even his ankles crossed, as far away from Sherlock as he can get, far side of the kitchen table while Sherlock is stood by the window on the Baker Street side, smoking.

“Am I supposed to apologise?” Mildly, no fight in it. Sherlock doesn’t want to fight with John. He really just wants to know if that’s what John wants.

“I know you never would,” John replies, equally undemanding. “I’m just angry with myself for letting things get so…”

Sherlock drags deeply, holds the smoke in his lungs, lets his eyes fall half-closed. He forgets to aim his exhalation at the cracked-open window. He raises his eyebrows, prompting:  _‘so’?_

“Complicated.”

“You love complicated,” Sherlock says dismissively, grinning, and stubs out the butt end of the cigarette in the green glass ashtray on the desk. He perches on top of the desk, his bare feet resting on the seat of the chair, and he rolls it away, pulls it back in.

“I really don’t.”

Sherlock thinks,  _Keep telling yourself that_. He says, “It’s a sound plan. It will work.” He shuts the window; the cold bite of early-December wind bothers him now that he’s finished smoking.

“But in the meantime…” John scrubs both hands up across his face, ruffles his hair the wrong way, grips the back of his neck and exhales hard. “You know. What happened…”

What happened was that they sat in their chairs, reading, not talking, completely at ease, like it used to be. What happened was that John hummed about something in the newspaper–wistful:  _oh, that’s a shame_ –and shook his head. What happened was that Sherlock slid his bare feet across the space between them and tucked his toes beneath the cuffs of John’s trousers, stroked his ankles, nudged his socks out of the way, the way he used to do, _before_. What happened was that John said his name like an exasperated scold: “Sherlock…”  _Don’t do this to me, please don’t do this_. What happened was that John looked at him with those bright blue eyes and Sherlock dipped his chin, the ghost of a nod, then got up and went to his bedroom and left the door open.

“…it doesn’t  _change_  anything.” John frowns with his whole body, distress from tousled head to sock-clad, jittering foot.

Sherlock turns his palms up. “Doesn’t make it any worse.”

John laughs humourlessly. “So I’m married to a woman who tried to kill you–did I mention she’s pregnant?–and the plan is for me to pretend I believe all the utter shit she tried to feed me. At Christmas! With your parents!”

“Mycroft will be there, too,” Sherlock offers, can’t help but twist one corner of his mouth upward; John can’t see the beauty of the plan, the simplicity, the certainty that it will work,  _of course it will work_ , because he’s forgotten who he is–who they are together–and he focuses on all the wrong things: a bullet wound. A liar who never loved him. A baby that’s not even his. Christmas.

“So–” John says, and slides forward in a slump, palms of his hands across the table, which is clear for once, they even ate their tea there earlier. He folds one hand into a fist, wraps the other around it. “So now there’s this woman–this _assassin_ –and this plan…and… also… _this_?” He motions at the two of them. “This, too?”

Sherlock crosses the flat in a few long strides, takes John by the wrist and tugs him to standing. Sherlock claims his right to John’s space; when he inhales, his belly almost touches John’s.

“Always,” he says, and shrugs it off. John knows this, of course he knows, he’s always known. They both have. “Always, this.”


	6. A Headcanon To Kill You In The Feels

Try not to think about the murderous expression of desperate, furious anger on Sherlock’s face, the righteous indignation at the unmitigated  _gall_  of a person who would even presume to  _attempt_  such a thing when John finally tells him the whole, true story of the day he was shot.

(or, and, also)

Try not to think of John harrumphing and sniffing and rolling his fingers against his tremor, and how he can’t sit, has to stand, and then must pace, and then must let out a shout-growl and punch a hole in the wall when Sherlock finally tells him the whole, true story of his captivity.


End file.
